


They're just thoughts

by Astrodragons (CelestialKnight)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Intrusive Thoughts, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Suicidal Thoughts, ocd written by someone with ocd, self-indulgent fic, sort of self projection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialKnight/pseuds/Astrodragons
Summary: Sometimes he’d be late for the bus. More like he was always late for the bus. Day in, day out, morning and night. He never felt like his bag was ever full, like he was missing something. He’d check, double check, triple check. When he was out the door, he’d panic thinking he had forgotten something he explicitly knew he put in his bag, but checked none the less to make sure it was there.





	They're just thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> oh gosh sorry??? This is, like I said, a lot of self-projection??? Like lol i just really hc hunk as having OCD

It begun when he was six. That was all Hunk really remembered. The floor was cool, his moms were outside enjoying the sun, playing with the water hose and screaming as their dog shook its wet fur all over them. All he had done was go and get some sunscreen and a hat. The kitchen was large. It always felt large for a six year old. There standing mighty and imposing above all else, were the knives, neatly put away. If he took the knife right now, it would be over. But he couldn’t because his moms would be upset with him gone.

When school got worse for him, so did his thoughts. He constantly made up scenarios of what ifs, sometimes tied in with graphic imagery. He didn’t like thinking about what he could do to his classmates. He didn’t like it at all and his emotions were always a spilling water glass, always filling, but never empty.

He’d look out the window and he would think someone was watching him. Every time he woke up in the middle of the night he needed to check to make sure no one was watching him. He couldn’t sleep if the blinds weren’t placed in a certain way. They had to block out all ability for someone to peek into his room and watch him sleep.

He always kept it all bottled up, always replacing what he was actually feeling with other less trivial things. He was known as emotional, yes, but at least no one thought he was a monster. The kitchen knife sometimes looked far more appealing after he’d come down from that peak of emotions, when everything he felt was numbness. He told himself every time taking that knife would be bad, what would his moms feel after he was gone?

He pulled through.

Sometimes he’d be late for the bus. More like he was always late for the bus. Day in, day out, morning and night. He never felt like his bag was ever full, like he was missing something. He’d check, double check, triple check. When he was out the door, he’d panic thinking he had forgotten something he explicitly knew he put in his bag, but checked none the less to make sure it was there.

When he was sixteen, he decided to pick up cooking. It turned out cooking was a great way to deal with his constant feeling of being on edge whenever he was stressed out. He’d spend a few hours cooking, and it seemed to vaguely just settle. Then he’d have to do it all over again. His moms got a little bit worried with the surplus of food, but never really much of an issue with a family of big eaters and friends willing to take one for the team.

Even with an outlet now, he quickly crashed and burned. There’s only so much you can do after so long. He was eighteen now. The pressure of growing up weighing even harder on his shoulders. Nothing felt different. There was no grand feeling of liberty. No feelings of new found freedom. All he felt was numbness. A long year of numbness and constant stress. Times of being far past crying yourself to sleep. Far gone being able to look yourself in the mirror, look your parents in the face and just see them, not disgustingly morphed thoughts that he hated himself for. Day in, day out, words repeated to him every morning and every hour of the day like a broken record. He soon began to believe it. He was disgusting. He was a monster. He didn’t deserve to live, the problem was he was too scared to die.

One day, he finally reached out. He reached out and it took him a while to finally talk about what he was feeling, and he was diagnosed with OCD. It was like something was taken off of his shoulders, an explanation. He wasn’t alone. His thoughts weren’t him, but after the hour, he told himself it was just lies.

It took a while, it took a long while to make himself believe it was just his mental illness being a jerk. That it was only his mental illness as he repeated to himself ‘They’re just thoughts, they don’t define you, you are not your thoughts.’ Every time he began to feel himself dip, he told himself that. He told his moms to keep an eye out for him. He felt himself able to open up little by little. Medication also helped. The adjustment period wasn’t, never would be fun he was told, but, but, he began to feel a little better.

He just needed to remind himself: his thoughts didn’t define him

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is saltwaterdragon


End file.
